Chapter 7
Seven
The carriage bowled steadily along the turnpike toward London, the late September sun casting long shadows across the hedgerows.
For the last miles, the gentlemen’s conversation had dwelt upon the practicalities of travel: the excellence of the roads, the mildness of the weather—neither too warm nor too chill—and the likelihood of reaching a good inn before nightfall.
Mr. Bingley, ever the optimist, declared himself perfectly content with the motion of the carriage and the prospect of a good dinner at journey’s end.
“I confess,” he said with a laugh, stretching his legs as far as the confines allowed, “that I am already famished. Lady Catherine’s table is admirable, but one cannot travel far on tea and deference alone.
What say you, Darcy—shall we stop at the next respectable posting-house?
I have a thirst that even her ladyship’s excellent claret could not quite quench. ”
Mr. Darcy, gazing out at the passing fields with his customary reserve, inclined his head.
“The Bell at Bexleyheath has tolerable accommodations, if memory serves. We might refresh there without undue delay.”
Mr. Collins, listening with attentive politeness, ventured a gentle contribution—his thoughts already drifting toward the comforts of Longbourn and the pleasure of introducing these gentlemen to his cousins.
“The roads are in fine order this season, gentlemen. We shall make good time, and the inns along this route are generally clean and well-supplied. I have often found a simple dish of cold meat and ale most restorative after a day’s travel.”
Mr. Bingley grinned. “A simple dish, you say? You are in luck, then, Mr. Collins—I could eat a horse now.”
A faint, indulgent curve touched Mr. Darcy’s lips, though he offered no comment—while Mr. Collins permitted himself a quiet smile, reflecting that such easy humor might prove most agreeable in Hertfordshire society.
The talk drifted then to horses, the comparative merits of various post-houses, and the minor discomforts of long journeys—until, as the sun began to dip lower, the conversation circled, almost inevitably, back to the instructions they had received at Rosings.
Mr. Bingley, stretching again with a contented sigh, remarked lightly, “I daresay we shall none of us escape her ladyship’s matrimonial schemes for long. She was most emphatic upon the subject.”
Mr. Darcy’s expression grew rather more guarded, though he merely observed, “My aunt is ever emphatic upon subjects she considers vital.”
However, Mr. Collins, who had been listening with increasing gravity, now judged the moment ripe to speak. He cleared his throat with respectful diffidence.
“We must consider the matter very carefully, gentlemen,” he began, his tone earnest yet deferential. “The alternative—that Lady Catherine should undertake to find brides for us—is flattering, I own, but scarcely the happiest course. I say this with all conviction.”
Mr. Bingley regarded him with mild surprise, while Mr. Darcy’s brow contracted faintly.
“You, Mr. Bingley,” Mr. Collins continued, “might perhaps escape her ladyship’s immediate sphere of influence, but we two, Mr. Darcy—forgive me for placing you in the same category as myself—are rather more exposed.”
Mr. Darcy made no immediate reply, his gaze returning to the window.
“Nothing,” he said at length, his voice low and resolute, “nothing would persuade me to comply with my aunt’s wishes in this. I hold Anne in the tenderest affection—she is my dear and gentle cousin—but we should not suit. She is delicate; I am… ill-tempered.”
Mr. Collins inclined his head with grave sympathy.
“It is not precisely so, Mr. Darcy. Allow me to explain. I am not her ladyship’s confessor, nor Anne’s, and thus my information comes not from confession, but from observation.
In the half-year I have resided at Hunsford, and thus in frequent proximity to Rosings, I have noticed certain indications.
Miss de Bourgh may perhaps entertain a preference for young Mr. Nathaniel Hoyt, the son of Mr. Hoyt the manufacturer. ”
Mr. Darcy’s expression sharpened. “And he for her fortune, no doubt.”
“Not at all,” Mr. Collins replied with quiet conviction.
“Mr. Hoyt senior has amassed a considerable fortune in wallpaper manufacture—he is even a supplier to the Royal Household, among other distinctions. Money is no object to them. The young man seeks rather elevation in aristocratic circles. With him, Miss de Bourgh might enjoy a life sufficiently pleasant, harmonious, and—I venture to say—congenial. Only Lady Catherine will not countenance parvenus or men of trade. She does not consider them, nor will she while she has you, Mr. Darcy, as the sole suitor acceptable in her eyes. So long as you remain unattached, she will permit Miss de Bourgh neither to see nor to hope for anyone else. Matters would stand very differently were you even formally engaged elsewhere and the intelligence reached her ears. She would defend her plan like a lioness—reproach you, attempt every means to make you reconsider—but in the end, I believe, she would yield. You spoke of your affection for your cousin Anne. Well, sir—you could free her, and you alone possess the power to do so.”
Mr. Darcy’s countenance darkened; he turned his gaze to the window, his voice cool when he spoke.
“Engage myself—or marry—merely to clear the path for Nathaniel Hoyt? Out of the question. You presume too much, Mr. Collins.”
Mr. Collins paled deeply, bowing his head in contrition.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Darcy. Yet I cannot but believe there is a grain of truth in what I have ventured to say.”
Mr. Bingley, who had been listening with quiet attention, now smiled faintly and judged the moment ripe for intervention.
“Come, Darcy,” he said in his easy, conciliatory tone, “you might consider that our good Mr. Collins may have the right of it. His analysis strikes me as carefully constructed and founded upon attentive observations made at Rosings. I, for one, find his remarks rather useful.”
Mr. Darcy made no immediate reply, his gaze still fixed upon the passing landscape, though the faintest compression of his lips suggested that the words had not fallen entirely upon deaf ears.
The carriage rolled on, the silence now weighted with reflection, while the spires of Bexleyheath began to appear upon the horizon.
***
The travelers reached London as dusk settled over the city, the streets alive with the clatter of carriages and the cries of vendors hastening home.
Wearied by the long day’s journey from Kent, they repaired to a respectable inn upon the northern outskirts—the George and Dragon at Barnet, a well-frequented posting-house known for its clean beds and tolerable table.
Mr. Darcy’s carriage was handed over to the ostlers with precise instructions, and apartments secured without delay.
Supper was plain but wholesome: a joint of mutton, fresh bread, and ale sufficient to restore spirits dulled by hours upon the road. Mr. Bingley, ever resilient, declared himself revived after the first mug—his countenance brightening with that easy cheer which fatigue seldom dimmed.
“I confess,” he said with a laugh, carving a generous slice, “that the motion of the carriage has given me an appetite I scarcely knew I possessed. Though I daresay we shall all sleep soundly tonight.”
Mr. Darcy, seated with his customary composure—though a faint weariness shadowed his eyes—inclined his head.
“The day has been long, but productive. A night’s rest will serve us well before the final stage tomorrow.”
Mr. Collins, whose thoughts had dwelt fondly upon the nearing prospect of Longbourn—and upon the happiness of soon presenting these distinguished gentlemen to his cousin’s family—nodded with earnest agreement.
“Indeed, gentlemen. The roads northward are excellent at this season, and with fresh horses we shall reach Hertfordshire by midday. I am most eager to present you to my cousin Bennet and his family.”
Conversation lingered briefly upon the comforts of the inn—the fire cheerful, the linen clean—and upon the minor satisfactions of a well-kept posting-house, which even Mr. Darcy allowed to be tolerable—before fatigue prevailed.
The gentlemen retired early, each to his chamber, the sounds of the inn fading into the quiet of a traveler’s repose.
***
Mr. Darcy’s carriage reached the outskirts of Meryton as the morning advanced toward noon, the autumn sun high enough to illuminate the fields with a clear, steady light.
The carriage turned at last into the sweep before Longbourn, the wheels crunching softly upon the gravel as the house came into view—a handsome, unpretending residence of moderate size, its windows reflecting the brightness of the day with welcoming cheer.
Mr. Bingley leaned forward with eager interest, Mr. Darcy regarded it with composed attention, and Mr. Collins—whose heart swelled with affectionate anticipation—felt the familiar comfort of home settle upon him like a well-worn coat.
The door opened before the steps were fully lowered, and Mr. Bennet himself appeared upon the threshold, his expression one of dry amusement tempered by genuine welcome.
Behind him hovered Mrs. Bennet, her countenance already bright with the animation of unexpected visitors—though she restrained herself, with visible effort, to the civilities proper to a first reception.
Mr. Collins descended first, bowing with earnest pleasure.
“My dear cousin,” he began warmly, “how good it is to see you in continued health. Allow me to present Mr. Charles Bingley and Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy—gentlemen whose acquaintance with Netherfield Park, I trust, will prove mutually advantageous.”
Mr. Bennet inclined his head with ironic courtesy, his eyes twinkling.
“Welcome to Longbourn, gentlemen. My cousin’s letters have prepared us for your arrival, though I confess the reality exceeds even his most eloquent descriptions.”